


Let The Little Children Come To Me

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [29]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Emotional, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Historical Figures, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sad Crowley (Good Omens), everyone is a child when you're thousands of years old, is it a reference if it's just... the fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 05:06:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: “It’s okay, little shepherd boy. Not everyone was made to be a soldier.”Not everyone was made to be a soldier, but as Crawly looked down at the leader of God’s chosen people, standing over the body of a giant, it seemed to him as if Someone had taken that choice away from the boy he had, against his better judgment, grown to care about.





	Let The Little Children Come To Me

**Author's Note:**

> i skipped yesterday (i had work and then a Queen tribute concert) but i'm back now with more Weird Niche Shit
> 
> I'm using Historical versions of the names (Yeshua, Maryam, Dawid) so don't let that trip you up :)

Once upon a time, a demon had sat atop a hill and watched as a boy no older than fifteen killed a giant with a sling and five smooth stones.

The boy had been told not to fight—and for good reason, really. He wasn’t _ a fighter _. He was a shepherd, for Satan’s sake, and a musician, not a—not—

Not _ this _.

He wasn’t _ meant _ to fight. He was a _ kid _ . Tiny and stupid and so full of _ faith _.

“If I’m meant to be king,” he said to Crawly as he gathered the stones from the river, “Shouldn’t I try to protect them? Or save them? They’re my people—a king should protect his people.”

“Ah, but you are not king just yet, little shepherd boy,” Crawly had argued, “and you’ll not be protecting anyone if you’re dead.”

“They’ll die if they fight.”

“And you won’t?”

Dawid looked up at Crawly with wide, brown eyes. His wild black curls were pushed back with a strap of leather, his cheeks were reddened with heat, mud smeared across his forehead. “The Lord will protect me,” he said with such conviction that it had twisted Crawly’s heart into knots.

He hadn’t meant to befriend the boy—he was _ supposed _ to be tempting him, persuading him to eat and drink and _ be merry _ (later, it would seem _ King Dawid _would not need Crawly’s help—he could be tempted well enough on his own), but there’d been something about him.

A brightness to his eyes. A purity, a kindness to his smile.

Instead, Crawly kept him company on those long, hot afternoons, listened as the boy practiced on his harp and his panpipes, fought off mountain lions and wolves and hyenas.

Jesse tossed Dawid out to the fields with the sheep, yes. Jesse disregarded his youngest son until a prophet sprinkled the boy with oil. Jesse ignored the boy’s music, thrust a sword into his hand, ridiculed him when Dawid had struggled under its weight, when the boy proved to lack the bloodlust of his older brothers.

But it was alright because Crawly was there to hold and comfort and say, “_ It’s okay, little shepherd boy. Not everyone was made to be a soldier _.”

Not everyone was made to be a soldier, but as Crawly looked down at the _ leader of God’s chosen people _, standing over the body of a giant, it seemed to him as if Someone had taken that choice away from the boy he had, against his better judgment, grown to care about.

**

He checked on Maryam after that prick Gabriel had talked to her.

(No tact, Gabriel. _ Oh, hey, I realise you’re literally a child and you’re about to leave your family to live with a man you’ve never met in a far off land away from everyone you’ve ever known, but would you mind carrying around my Boss’s kid for nine months? And then caring for him until you have to watch as he’s tragically, brutally murdered? Thanks! _ What a fucking _ twat _.)

“I am happy to do as the Lord commands,” the girl muttered, sniffling and wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. “It is an honour to be chosen to serve the Lord my God.”

“Yes, alright,” Crawly said with a huff. “But you—are_ you _okay?”

The girl stared at her hands.

She was _ thirteen _.

Why did they always have to be so blessed _ young _?

“I’m…” she whispered.

The moon shone through the window into her bedroom, illuminating the damp streaks along her cheeks.

“Tell me where in the scripture it says it’s a sin to be afraid,” Crawly whispered, kneeling at her side.

“Who are you?” she countered. “Where are you—why are you here?”

“It’s—that’s not important—”

“If you’re here to—to _ lead me astray _ , to convince me I should not have accepted this—this _ gift _—”

“I’m not, I’m _ not _ ,” Crawly insisted. “I’m just—I’m here. To make sure you’re alright. If you’re—if you’re going to be giving birth to _ the Christ child _, don’t you think it’s best that you yourself are in—that you’re okay?”

“So you’re another angel?”

“_ Ngk _,” Crawly choked out, his throat squeezing shut around the noise. “Something—something like that.”

Maryam looked up at him. Her hair was falling from its braid, and her dark eyes seemed to hold the whole of the night sky.

The demon was drug back a thousand years, to a little boy holding a strap of leather tied between twigs.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

Crawly held her close, ran his fingers through her hair, comforted her until morning.

**

“I knew your mother, once.”

“I know.”

“You would.”

They were somewhere in South America (although it wasn’t called that quite yet), sipping on something warm and brown and spiced that Crawly knew a certain angel would just _ love _.

Well. Crowley was sipping. Yeshua was, apparently, still fasting.

“And you’re really…?”

The question hung in the air.

_ Her. You’re really Her? And You’re here? On Earth? You’re speaking to me? _

“Depends on how you see it,” Yeshua replied.

It wasn’t the answer Crawly wanted.

Then again, given who Yeshua claimed He was (or whose son He was? could nothing be simple?), it made sense.

They’d never given Crowley the answer he wanted.

It had never stopped him before.

“Why?” he asked. “Why this? Why _ like _this? There’s—you know what’s coming. You must do. There’s nothing to avoid it? No other way?”

“None that I know of.”

The demon sighed.

“My mother thinks you’re an angel,” Yeshua continued.

Crawly huffed. “Yeah, well, what was I supposed to say? She’s, apparently, the most devout woman in the bloody world, couldn’t very well tell her that her—that I’m a demon.”

“And you’ve done nothing to show her, either.”

“Think that says less about me and more about—”

“_ Crowley _ ,” Yeshua said, but at that moment, it _ wasn’t _ Yeshua, it was Someone else, Someone Crawly hadn’t heard from, hadn’t _ seen _—

Someone looked at him and Spoke and with a single word, with a single _ syllable _, righted something in the demon that he didn’t know had been wrong.

“They’re _ children _ ,” he said, the words snapping off in his throat. “Why do you always—they’re all so _ young _ , so _ foolish _, they don’t—”

“They know not what they do,” They said softly.

“Never,” the demon said softly. “They never do.”

“I’m giving them a chance,” Yeshua murmured. “I’m giving them—I’m giving them a _ choice _.”

“And if they don’t make the right one? If they make a mistake? If they—”

“If they _ question _?”

Crawly (_ Crowley? _) was silent.

“They have free will,” Yeshua said. “I cannot force them into anything. I can only hope that they’ve listened and choose wisely. It’s all—that’s all that can be done.”

“And some will—some will fall?”

Yeshua turned towards the demon.

He was so _ kind _.

“Some always do.”

Later, Crawly would watch as Yeshua preached to the crowd, as he met Crawly's eye and said in that same comforting voice, "Let the little children come to me.

And it wasn't _the end—_far from it—but it was _something_.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what you think!


End file.
